Deal With It
by Canadian Belle
Summary: While investigating the murders of multiple boys under the age of fourteen, Woody finds himself having nightmares as his past catches up to him. R&R! Rating might change later, dunno where this will go...
1. Can't Deal With It

**Dedicated to: My Dad, wherever you are  
Rated: T, for mild language, mentions of suicide, rape and murder, and for obvious peril  
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did  
A/N: This is told from Woody's POV, to squash any confusion. **

_"Mommy," I said quietly, clutching my blanket to my chest. "Mommy!"_

_It was not my mother who opened my bedroom door and yelled at me to shut up; it was my father, and he was drunk again. I sighed, tears filling my eyes as I buried my head in my pillow._

_Mommy wasn't coming home. I knew, but I hadn't been able to except it yet. Daddy was mad that he had to take care of Cal and me. He was mad at us. Mostly at Cal._

_When Mommy got sick she could have gotten better, but she had Cal in her tummy and wouldn't get better because it would hurt him. When Cal was born she started getting better, but then she got sicker and left us. Father McMillan said she was in a better place now; that she was happy. But it didn't make me feel any better._

_Cal is two now. Mommy has been gone for a while. I miss her a lot. So does Daddy. When he feels sad he drinks the bad stuff. It makes him angry and stupid. I don't know why he drinks it. It never makes anything better._

_I have to take care of Cal when Daddy is drunk. Sometimes he yells at us, or forgets that I have to go to Kindergarten. I have to remind him a lot, but sometimes I forget stuff, too. Then he gets even madder._

_He's a cop. He saves people. He helps people. So sometimes he has to be able to forget things, I guess. When he went home, he used to be able to because Mommy would remember. But now Mommy isn't here and he has to remember._

_"Mommy!" I screamed, getting out of bed and opening my door, "Mommy, where are you?!"_

_I couldn't stop the tears as I ran through our empty house. Where was Daddy? Where was Cal?_

_"Mommy!" I yelled, over and over, running to my parent's room. "Mommy, please come home! Mommy, I need you!"_

_"Mommy, I neeeeed you," came a mocking voice from behind me. "Oh, Mommy, please come home!" I turned to face the voice. It's my Dad, wearing his police uniform and staggering a little. "Guess what, Woods. I got a secret. Your Mommy ain't comin' home no more. She's gone forever. Deal with it."_

_The last words ring over and over in my head. "Deal with it. _Deal with it_. _**Deal with it**_._ **DEAL WITH IT**_." Louder and louder his voice gets, consuming me. It's all I hear, see, and feel. But I _**CAN'T**_ deal with it. I'm only a little kid. I opened my mouth to scream._

_"Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!"_

"Woody? Woody, wake up!"

I opened my eyes, not to find myself as a six-year-old in my childhood home, but a twenty-nine-year-old detective with a beautiful brunette shaking my arm and looking worried. I sat up and realised I had been asleep on the couch in her office.

"Sorry," I mumbled stupidly, the previous day's memories coming back to me in a rush. "Bad dream."

"Oh, really?" asked Jordan, faking shock. "And here I thought you were screaming for your mother because you were perfectly okay and having a very pleasant dream." Her sarcastic tone made me wince and rub the back of my neck. It prickles when I'm uncomfortable.

"This case is just getting to me, that is all," I said, trying to ignore the fact she said she'd heard me calling out for my mother. Jordan clicked her tongue, then sat down on the couch beside me.

"Go home, Woody," she said, putting a friendly hand on my shoulder, "You need to sleep. You've been up for fifty hours straight trying to find this guy. You've done all you can."

_Hypocrite_, I thought bitterly. Oh, the irony! Jordan Cavanaugh telling someone to stop obsessing about a case and get some sleep is worse than the pot calling the kettle black. I was just about to point this out when Nigel suddenly burst into the room, holding up a sheet of paper triumphantly.

"I've got it!" he said excitedly, "I've got it!" Jordan sighed and stood up.

"Slow down, Nige. Breathe. Now, what _exactly_ have you got?" Nigel took a deep breath, and I stood, hoping for good news pertaining to the case.

"That substance we found on the little boys' hands was lubricant," explained Nigel, "But not your ordinary lubricant. This stuff is the high-end stuff. A hundred and ninety bucks a tube."

Jordan glanced at me, then back at Nigel. "If this stuff is so expensive... do store owners keep a list of purchasers?" she asked. Nigel nodded.

"Sixty clients. When we get a suspect, we can check the list."

I sighed, rubbing my neck again. "But it doesn't _give_ us a suspect. We need to get this guy before he kills again!" Nigel looked apologetic, while Jordan's eyes lit up.

"Did you compare the names to known sex offenders?" she asked, sticking her hands in her jean pockets. Nigel grinned.

"Nope," he said, then left her office, almost running in the direction of Trace. I shook my head; how could he have forgotten to do that?

"I'm going to re-check the most recent victim again," said Jordan, "We may have missed something." I nodded and she left.

I sat back down on Jordan's couch. Seven boys, under the age of fourteen, raped and murdered over the course of three weeks. We needed to find this guy. We had a serial killer on our hands, and the FEDs hadn't helped one iota. It wasn't fair. We had to get him.

I yawned. Lack of sleep was catching up with me. Perhaps I should take Jordan's advice and go home to sleep for a while. Or at least take another nap on her couch.

I laid down, putting my hands behind my head and crossing my ankles. I'd only rest for a minute, then I would get back to work. Just for a minute...


	2. You Can't Always Get What You Want

**Dedicated to: My Dad, wherever you are  
Rated: T, for mild language, mentions of suicide, rape and murder, and for obvious peril  
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did  
A/N: This is told from Woody's POV, to squash any confusion. **

"Woody..." I groaned and rolled over. "Woody, do want updates on the case or not?"

I opened my eyes and sat up, my neck hurt like hell from laying the way I had been, sprawled on Jordan's couch. "'Course I do," I said sleepily, stifling a yawn, "What've we got?"

"Nigel cross-referenced his lube list with known sex offenders," said Jordan, giving me her 'look'.

"_And?_" I asked, stretching and standing up.

"You want the good news, or the bad news?" I groaned again, and almost subconsciously rubbed my neck.

"Good news, please."

"He got hits," she said.

"Hit_s_?" I asked, putting the emphasis on the 's', "As in, plural?" She nodded.

"That's the bad news. Twelve of the sixty customers are known sex offenders. Ten of them like boys. Nine like boys between the ages of seven and thirteen."

"Nine?!" I was almost yelling at her, though it wasn't her fault, "Nine..."

That hardly narrowed the field. Having nine suspects was hardly better than having the 590,763 people that lived in Boston as suspects. Ok, it was, but hardly.

They didn't even know what the boys had in common yet; none of them hung out with the same people or in the same places, none of them were one the same school sports teams, they didn't take the same music classes or art classes. Their schedules didn't overlap in any one place. One played piano and one played guitar, two were in a soccer league (different ones), one was in a baseball league, one on a basket ball team, one took a painting class and one went to mother-and-son pottery classes. Four were in the sixth grade, two in seventh and one in eighth, and the only two that went to the same school was a sixth grader and the eighth grader, so chances were they'd never met.

"I'm sorry Woody," Jordan said, trying to comfort me (unsuccessfully). She gently put one of her hands on my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "We'll get him. Eventually."

"But not before he rapes and kills another boy," I explained, the feeling of a rock in the pit of my stomach, "I just want this sick son of a bitch off the streets."

"Me, too."

--

"I hate this!" I yelled, pounding my fist into my bedroom wall. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about those poor boys. I wanted to catch the man who was going this. I want not only to catch him, but to catch him in a state that had the death sentence. I wanted this sick, freak of a man _dead_.

It was shocking for me to realize this. I'd wanted to hurt people before, I'd wanted to severely hurt people before; but I don't think I've ever wanted someone _dead_ before. And I wanted his guy dead.

'Bring!' screamed my cell phone, and I grabbed my jeans and yanked it from my pocket so forcefully that I actually send it flying across my bedroom and out of my bedroom door.

"Dammit!"

I set out after my phone, which somehow had disappeared. 'Bring!' it screamed again, muffled. I groaned. Where had my stupid phone gotten to?

Then I saw it; it was under my couch, half-covered by a fallen pillow. How it had gotten from my bedroom to there I would never understand, but I had found it.

I snatched it up and flipped it open. "Hoyt," I said calmly, as though the last three minutes of my life had never occurred.

"Hey, Woods, how's it going?"

"Cal?!" This was _so_ not the time._ Every time_ was never the time with him, but he always called at the worst moments possible. This case was eating me from the inside out, I hadn't slept in days, Jordan and I weren't getting on so well, and I had a killer headache. Now was not the time to be dealing with my dead-beat brother.

"Yeah, Woods, it's me," he sounded tired. Almost as tired as me. But not quite. No one was as tired as me in that instant.

"What is it this time? You need money? Got arrested and need me to bail you out?" Cal snickered.

"No, nothing like that. Woody, I'm clean now. I'm getting better. I just called because..." He sighed. "I saw on the news about the Boston rapist. They mentioned you were lead detective; I just thought..."

"Thought _what_?" I snapped.

"I thought it'd be eating you up." He was quiet, which was unusual for my brother. "I know this probably hits way too close to h—"

"I'm fine," I lied, keeping all emotion out of my voice. "I don't need your pity, Cal. Just... leave me alone."

"Now I know you're not fine." I groaned. He knew me too well. "Do you want me to catch the next flight to Boston? 'Cause I swear I will."

"No. No, no, no, no, no. Remember the last time you came to Boston? You nearly got yourself and Jordan shot down by the Albanian mob! No, I don't want you to come to Boston, nor do I _need_ you to come. Seriously, I just need some sleep. Which this phone call is depriving me of."

"Woods..."

"Don't 'Woods' me!"

"Woody..."

"Seriously, Cal, I'm _fine_!"

"No, you're not..."

"I _am_!"

"Woody..." I was sick of this. I hung up on him, then threw my phone down, cracking the casing. I didn't care. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to catch the guy who was doing this. I wanted Jordan to see me as more than a friend. I wanted my brother to stop hassling me. I wanted my head to stop pounding. I wanted to be able to eat something more than toast and coffee without throwing up because of this case's gnawing at my stomach. You can't always get what you want.


	3. What Hurts The Most

**Dedicated to: My Dad, wherever you are  
Rated: T, for mild language, mentions of suicide, rape and murder, and for obvious peril  
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did  
A/N: This is told from Woody's POV, to squash any confusion. **

_Mommy's arms were wrapped tightly around me as she bounced me up and down on her knee, singing my favourite good-night song. I turned to look at her and she looks happy, peaceful. But there's something else there too. She'd worried. She's worried because she's sick and she can't get better until my brother is born._

_I put my hand on her rounding stomach and asked how my little brother was doing. She told me he was fine, but wanted to see the real world soon. I doubted that. How wonderful would it be to be able to be with Mommy everywhere you go? Stay warm and cozy in her tummy, where nothing and no one could get you..._

_I put hand hands in my lap and closed my eyes, letting Mommy bounce me lightly. Suddenly, her voice deepened, and her actions became rougher. I opened my eyes and put out my hand to touch her baby bump again, but instead felt a flat, hard stomach. I gulped, then struggled to get away._

_"Ah, ah, ah," said my father's drunken voice. He pulled me closer to him and sat me in his lap._

_"Let go!" I said and he dug his fingernails into my arms, "You're hurting me!"_

_"You're hurting me," he mocked, not letting go, "Let goooo!"_

_Tears poured down my cheeks as I struggled to get away. "Nooo!"_

I sat up and started gasping for air. I had finally been able to get to sleep, and that was the dream I had? Typical. I pushed the sheet off me, and wiped the residual tears from my cheeks.

'Bring!' That was my phone again. I got up and padded to the living room, where I had left my phone on the floor. It was sort of broken, I was going to need another one, but it still worked, obviously.

I scooped it up and glanced at my call display. It read, 'Hoyt'. Groaning, I flipped it open.

"Cal, I told you not to—"

"Just shut up and unlock your door."

I groaned. Unlock my door? He was in Boston. Dammit! I really would rather claw my own eyes out than see my little brother at the moment. "You're here?"

"Durrh. Now open the door."

"No way! You can sit out there forever, for all I care."

"Fine, I will." He hung up.

Sighing, I flopped down on my couch and put my cell phone down beside me, then rested my head in my hands. Cal began to knock "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on the door. It became annoying, fast.

"Calvin Coolidge Hoyt, cut it out!"

"Not until you let me in!" came his muffled reply. I picked myself up off my couch and went to my door, and leaned in close.

"Not. A. Chance," I said quietly, then put my back against and slid down the wall, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them.

"Oh, come on, Woods. I just came down here to help—"

"I don't need help. I'm fine. Or I will be as soon as we catch this son of a b—"

"Woody..."

"—and put him behind b—"

"Woody."

"—because I don't want any more boys to get r—"

"Jordan!"

"Cal?" I stopped my ranting and fell silent. "What are you doing here, Cal?"

"Happy to see me?"

"Extremely, but... why are you here, sitting outside Woody's apartment?"

"Because he won't let me in."

There was a jingle of metal, and a moment of silence, then, "You have keys to his apartment? Does this mean you're finally having sex with my brother?" I jumped up and unlocked the door, flinging it open.

"Jordan does not have keys to my—" I started yelling, only to see she and Cal, both with hands on their hips, grinning at me. "...And you knew that."

"It got you to open your door, didn't it?" I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit something. I wanted to cry. But I didn't.

"What have you got?" I asked impatiently, glaring at Jordan. She gave me an apologetic look.

"A missing person's report was filed an hour ago. Jeremiah Adkins, age eleven, grade five. Disappeared walking home from a friend's house. I'm sorry, Woody."

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. He fit the profile. Within the next six hours we'd get an anonymous phone call from a prepaid, untraceable cell phone, telling us where we'd find the body. It would most likely be in a secluded area; a warehouse, wooded area, somewhere without traffic or security cameras so he wouldn't get caught dumping the body.

"I'm sorry, Woods," my brother added, "I know how this case must be getting to y—" I put up my hand to stop him.

"Just... stop. Call me when we get the call." Jordan gave me another apologetic look as I closed the door on them. I slid down it, putting my face in my hands again.

I heard Cal and Jordan discussing living arrangements while he was in town. I heard her offer and him agree to sleep on her couch. I didn't care. All I cared about was getting this guy off the streets.

It wasn't fair. I hadn't caught the guy, and now he had another boy. It wasn't fair, and it was eating me up inside. It was making it impossible to eat, to sleep, to do anything but think about this case. It hurt so bad that I hadn't caught him yet. I hadn't caught him yet, and that was the reason that Jeremiah Adkins was dead or about to die. It hurt, and it wasn't fair.

I was aware that the voices outside my apartment had stopped. Cal and Jordan must have left.

I picked myself up off the floor and trudged to my bedroom, throwing myself down and pulling a pillow to my chest. My chest was that which hurt the most. My heart broke again and again every time a boy was taken, raped and murdered. My heart broke for them, their families, what they had to go through. That was what hurt the most.


	4. It Wasn't Fair

**Dedicated to: My Dad, wherever you are  
Rated: T, for mild language, mentions of suicide, rape and murder, and for obvious peril. Subject to change.  
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, wish I did  
A/N: This is told from Woody's POV, to squash any confusion.  
A/N2: If anyone thinks this should be bumped up to 'M' rather than 'T', please tell me, 'cause I'm not good at knowing where the line between them is, and might (probably will) cross it with this story...  
A/N3: Sorry this took so long. Just started school, tons of homework, you know, first few months of ninth grade. :) And I was grounded from the computer for a bit... Anyway, here it is!**

* * *

"Hoyt!" I said into my phone gruffly. It'd been eight hours since the eighth victim disappeared.

"Woody, we got the call," said Jordan, and I could tell by her voice that they weren't able to track the call.

"Where?" I asked quickly, my jacket already on and my car keys in hand.

"The Park, off the grove. About a quarter mile from the main road into the woods."

"I'll meet you there." I hung up.

--

"Woody, over here!" called Jordan when she saw me. She was bent over Jeremiah Adkins's body, which lay in the middle of the small clearing Jordan's directions had led me to. It was cold, not surprising for December, but the frost hadn't touched the dead-grass floor of the clearing; there was a leafy canopy above us that kept the snow away.

I pulled my green, fur-lined coat tighter around me as I walked to Jordan; the chill in my bones having nothing to do with the early December weather.

That monster had killed another boy. That monster had ruined another family, and taken away all the chances a ten-year-old had to grow up, accomplish something, and do well, or not so well. It wasn't fair. That kid— he had his entire life in front of him.

"TOD?" I asked briskly, trying not to look at Jeremiah Adkins' body.

"An hour and a half ago, minimum." I cringe. If it had been an hour ago or less, we could get prints off the body. The guy was smart.

"Any chance the cold preserved fingerprints?" I asked hopefully, but I knew the answer. The frost hadn't reached the ground; it wasn't cold enough to freeze the prints. Jordan shook her head in confirmation.

"Damn."

Jordan looked up and me, and her honey coloured eyes met my blue ones. I looked away, staring at my boots. She had to know something was up. And I couldn't tell her what. It wasn't fair.

"We... better get him back to the morgue to process," said Jordan quietly, and I nodded silently, lost in thought. Well, not really, but I probably looked that way.

"Cal's staying at my place," she put in, standing up and trying to catch my gaze. I avoided her eyes looking toward the ground and hoping she didn't notice the absence of my soul.

"Oh. Well, that's nice. How is he?" I asked, not really caring.

"Not so good. He's upset because you won't talk to him." She peeled off her latex gloves and looked me over. "Are you okay?" I shrugged.

"We better get him back to the morgue," I said, motioning toward the body, but not looking at him. I couldn't look at him, for reasons I didn't want to admit. That I couldn't admit; not to myself, not to Cal, and sure as hell not to Jordan.

"I already said that."

"Right. Well, we should." She was bound to notice my strange behaviour eventually. I turned on my heals before she could and headed toward my car, trying not to let my shoulders shake. Unsuccessfully. I was just so damn _mad_, I couldn't stand it. This worthless SOB had killed again, and his victims were getting younger. A fifth grader! He was so young, and so much to live for, probably had a world of potential, until one man took everything away from him. It wasn't fair.

--

I curled up on Jordan's couch again. She demanded that I go home until she completed the autopsy, but I was willing to wait for her. I just couldn't actually watch her chop up an innocent eleven-year-old boy.

I put my chin on my knees and wrapped my arms around my calves, then closed my eyes. A nap wouldn't hurt.

_I clutched my stuffed panda bear to my chest and rocked back and forth slowly. It had happened again. But I had protected Cal, and that was what mattered. He was outside playing, throwing himself in the piles of leaves I had raked for him. He was being a regular six-year-old, and I was thankful for that. That he could be normal._

_I put down my panda and got up, stumbling toward the bathroom. I got into the shower and turned it on full-blast, as though it could wash away the painful memories of what he did to me. Of what he would do to me again later._

_I turned off the water and sat down in the tub, trying to calm down. Cal couldn't see me like this; I was a mess. He'd figure it out, and then he wouldn't be able to be normal anymore, which was what I was protecting._

_I brushed away the tears with the back of my hand and got up, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around myself. I dried and got dressed in my pyjamas; the Spiderman ones. I walked into my bedroom and flopped on my bed, wincing._

_"Hey, Woods," Cal said happily, pulling off his jacket and dumping it on the floor. He studied my face, and I forced a smile._

_"Hi."_

_He didn't seem to notice the smile. He looked into my eyes, as though trying to see my darkened soul. As though he knew, but he couldn't. I didn't want him to know. He looked into my eyes, and soon there were tears in his. "What happened? Are you okay?"_

_I shrugged, grabbing my pillow. "I'm fine," I lied, to protect him. He was only six. He wouldn't understand. It wasn't fair._


End file.
